


All that we were, we're not

by Meitslilyxxx



Series: All that we were [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Modern day gods, This is my first work, as if this hasn't been done enough, pls be kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meitslilyxxx/pseuds/Meitslilyxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, they were strong, immovable, immortal, all powerful. Now, they are not.</p><p>Basically Greek gods in the modern day world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that we were, we're not

**Author's Note:**

> As if this hasn't been done enough! (Please be nice, this is my first work)

Once, they were strong, immovable, immortal, all powerful. Now, they are not.

One shakes as He roars his fury, coughs, bends double, spits blood onto the concrete, and continues with his fury, cursing the arrogance of humanity, that they might think themselves masters of the oceans, trap it's creatures in cages, fill it with oil, and plastic, and poison. His hands shake and his eyes are clouded, hair matted, skin wrinkled and marked. Still he stands, and storms batter the coast, ripping down and remaking, only for concrete to be re-laid, bricks piled high again, people to return. Outside of attractions, surrounded by tourists, he curses humanity, and weeps for a whale in a cage, for Dolphins that cannot swim free. He weeps for caged mammals and fish, for the poison that kills them, plastic that chokes them, for destruction and pollution and slow death of his domain, dying slowly, taking him with it. 

Another shrieks into the darkness, screams her pain, and the pain of millions, into nothing. At night, she dreams, if blood and terror. She dreams of children who drown within sight of land, children who are shot, and burned, who die for nothing. She dreams of rubble, of ash, of flames in empty buildings, of the dead who lie in the street. She dreams of rich men in lavish mansions, who argue, and smile, and believe what they do us right. She dreams of men, who smile and say that their guns, their bombs, their troops, save the world, one broken, empty, destroyed, city at a time. By day, she shudders, and when she looks around, she sees only war. Behind each child, she sees the shadow of a thousand who died. Behind each adult, a thousand more, who ran, but didn't make it, who fought, but fell just the same. When people protest, she joins them, and screams when peace turns to violence, and more lie dead. She weeps for a world broken by war, and breaks apart with it.

A third lives in shrinking woodland. She carries a gun at her shoulder, and a dog trots at her heels. She is cold, regal, and alone. She has no mercy for those who kill too much, those who empty the plains, and the jungle, and the forest of their inhabitants. She kills easily, huntress of men, and watches settlements burn under a moonlit sky. When jungles disappear, clear cut for farmland, she stands in the ruins, and remembers her hunting grounds. When another species is extinct, she picks up her gun, calls her dog to heel, and goes on a hunt of her own, and the moon lights her way.

Yet another gazes into a mirror, and sighs at her reflection. She rubs hands down her sighs, a turns to see herself better. A whisper, and weight falls away, and she frowns still. A mutter, and dark curls become long, blonde, locks. Chocolate eyes become sparkling green, clear and cool. Skin fades to perfect white, and still it's not right, still it's not perfect. She can always be more beautiful, more elegant, better. In the evenings, she smiles at men over a glass, and her hips sway as she stalks towards them. Men follow her, adore her, hand her flowers, chocolates, perfume. They leave their wives for her, spend money they do not have, but in the end she smiles and turns away, not satisfied, bored with them already. She breaks hearts, and frowns into the mirrors she cannot bear to look into, but cannot stop herself from analysing every inch of herself in them. In the mornings, she smiles into a camera, and tells girls how to apply makeup, how to change their appearance, then turns it off to frown over her own.

Once, they were strong, immovable, immortal, all powerful. But not all are broken. Some thrive in this new world, stronger than ever before.

One races through alleys and skips past traffic jams, laughing, curls tangled in the wind, wings on his scooter almost almost glowing as he blurs past. He delivers pizza, carries messages, winks at a teenager as he drops a clear plastic bag into their hand. He patches injuries with a kit from the of his scooter. He drifts across countries, and names every constellation in the night sky. He flirts with someone else in every city, and moves on again, drifting in the wind.

Somewhere else, a young women smiles as she hands a child a pastry. Her bakery is warm and inviting, chairs soft and comfortable. She bakes elaborate cakes, and feather light pastries, gives young mothers discounts and comforts furious teenagers. The shop is filled with light, and the scents of cinnamon, dark coffee, and chocolate. For many, it's a safe haven, a place to curl in s chair and read, or work, a place where no one will shout, and no one will disturb them, and they feeling happier, feeling lighter than before. The woman is always there, smiling behind the counter or sitting with a tearful figure. She protects them, if not in their own home, then in hers.

In another city, in another country, a group of girls wander a university campus. They can be found in the library, or in music rooms, laughing, reading, writing, singing. They help students with essays, and whisper courage into the ears of performers. They've always been there, as long as anyone, as long as any students or teachers can remember. They are as much part of the campus as the library is, as the oldest colleges are. 

Once, they were, strong, and glowing, worshiped. Now, they are forgotten, but not gone, hiding in the shadows, sliding from view, or invisible in plain sight, just another face in a crowd, another delinquent teenager, or shouting protester. Just another student, or baker, or pretty girl in front of a camera. The forgotten faces of a forgotten era.


End file.
